


Lorne

by Saxifactumterritum



Series: Moments universe [13]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Stargate, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 15:42:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20726657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saxifactumterritum/pseuds/Saxifactumterritum
Summary: A truly Lorne story, for Haab. It's still McShep, obviously, but they're not the focus. John's dragging him out of the city and Rodney's doing the driving and John seems to have an agenda.





	Lorne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haab/gifts).

> I think I'm gonna add a sort of 'Rodney' side of things, because there's bits I wanted to put in that didn't work for Lorne's POV
> 
> WARNINGS: see end-note

“...and I don’t know how the hell you’ve got this far in life without having gone to her house and I do not understand why you can’t just drive yourself, well, no, I do know what that’s about because Ronon came and loomed at me and it seems he’s decided it’s our small over-uses of cars and not, you know, the mindless conglomerates who puts hundreds of billions of pounds into oil and- anyway, so I get that one but how come it has to be  _ me? _ I know John's been up there a day already and you were working so couldn't go up with him but still, I was in the middle of having a very brilliant epiphany and now I’m stuck in a car with you for another three hours.”

“I know the feeling,” Lorne says, when Rodney McKay finally takes a breath. 

“Your life is in my hands, remember that when you decide just how snide and sarcastic you feel like being. Besides, Ronon is probably right. We might not be able to save the planet but we should all cut down on our own carbon emissions anyway, if only to get in his good books. He makes good cookies, did you know this? John has effectively been keeping it a secret by  _ eating all the examples  _ before I can get any. They’re better than your cookies, though your mom’s are still in the number one position.”

“She’ll be thrilled,” Lorne says. The annoying thing is, she probably will. 

“Yes, good. Besides, Ronon is also fighting the good fight against the capitalist apocalyptic ideal. Eat the rich and all that.”

“I’m pretty sure we  _ are  _ the rich,” Lorne mutters, wondering if it’s really three whole hours still until they reach the Emagan residence. 

He would check his map, but Rodney confiscated it about an hour into their journey and threw it out the window, declaring that the rain would help it break down and biodegrade so it wasn’t technically littering. He’d check his phone, but last time he tried to do that for any length of time Rodney explained that John had insisted they ‘bond’ and that this is ‘bonding time’ and threatened to put the phone in the carrier with the cat, in the back. Oh yes, they’ve brought a  _ cat  _ on this joyous road trip. 

“So anyway, he’s going to be back from parts unknown soon, John’s excited. He might go with Ronon next time, fly things, film bad people doing bad things, start a revolution,” Rodnye says. “Did you want to contribute to the conversation? I’ve tried not to talk about science or math, John says you know shit all about either.”

“Kind of him,” Lorne says. 

“Yes, he’s thoughtful like that. I asked about conversation topics because you know, spending this amount of time in a car with someone is a bit nerve wracking if you’re not sleeping with them or arguing with them and can’t talk about work or just dictate notes on your latest project or something,” Rodney says. “He actually told me to google it, but there wasn’t much on what USAF colonels like to discuss. In my experience they mostly just roll their eyes at me. Or get drunk and hide under tables but I’m pretty sure that’s a unique John thing. Is it a universal constant?”

“Don’t think so,” Lorne says. Rodney has been talking non-stop for an hour and a half which is impressive but is giving Lorne a headache, which isn’t helped by the cat, who smells funky. “Did we have to bring Gwaihir?”

“She’s old,” Rodney snaps. “Of course we have to bring her. I’m not leaving her at home on her own to accidentally die with no one there! Are you some kind of sociopath?”

“No, doc, I just thought it might be disruptive and upsetting for her,” Lorne says. 

“Oh. That’s actually really nice of you. Sociopathy isn't real anyway. No, she knows Teyla’s house, she’s visited before. When John first got out of the service he used to come break into my flat and catnap her and take her on retreats to visit Teyla. Or to visit Kanaan and Torren, really, she was mostly away on deployment.”

Lorne frowns. He remembers when John got out of the service, firstly because he was there when John came to General Caldwell’s office and handed in his papers in a very dramatic way, it was hard to miss what with the rainbow flag John was wearing as a cape. Secondly he remembers it because John hadn’t got anywhere to live and had camped out on Lorne’s sofa, driving miles and miles to visit Rodney. Lorne knows John shifted about a bit, between his sofa and Hol’s floor and maybe Toots and Big John, those guys had apartments in the city. 

“He never brought the cat to mine,” Lorne says. “Should I be offended?”

“Why would he have? He basically lived up at Teyla’s, he was there so much. I thought he was hiding from me, but it was probably the job search he was hiding from.”

“He didn’t have a house, I guess he was just trying not to piss any of us off by overstaying his welcome,” Lorne says, still wondering if it's a slight on his person that John didn't bring the cat.

Rodney goes quiet, and Lorne is glad for about ten minutes, but then Rodney is still not talking and there’s not any music on and the silence starts to get oppressive. A gas station comes up on the left and Rodney pulls across the other lane without checking, there's a blaze of colour and and noise and sudden imminent death, and then they're parking askew by the air-pump. 

“Jesus! What the hell?” Lorne hangs onto the handle and watches wide-eyed as the car that just nearly hit them zooms away leaning on the horn. “Jesus.”

“He didn’t have a  _ what? _ ” Rodney says, low and dangerous. Lorne just stares at him. “He didn’t have a  _ house _ ?! He didn’t have a place to live?”

“No! What are you doing? Rodney! You just nearly got us killed!”

“I did warn you,” Rodney says. “Life in my hands. Not the point and it doesn’t matter right now. Why didn’t he have a house?”

“I don’t know!”

“He had money.”

“I guess, how should I know?!”

“You were his friend. Teyla and Ronon weren’t there, didn’t you hear me? He didn't tell me. I wondered why he was so reluctant to move in. I'm going to be having words with him, when we arrive. And not just because he said that about scientists.”

Lorne knows he'll regret it, but he asks what John said about scientists and gets a twenty minute lecture, Rodney pulling back into traffic with as little care as before. From what Lorne can gather, John said math gives the sciences a solid foundation on which to drape their baggy, ambiguous theories, inaccurate measurements and all. And that is Just So Wrong. The cat starts to make a grating sound that Rodney says is snoring. And she farts. Lorne is so glad when Rodney's phone rings; he opens his window while Rodney's working out what John's done to his handsfree. 

“Yes, yes? What?” Rodney says. 

“Hey Rodney,” John drawls, on speaker. “You got Lorne?”

“Six hours ago!” Rodney squawks.

“Feels like six days, sir,” Lorne says, figuring if he's insulting the man's boyfriend he better throw in a ‘sir’. 

“You must almost be here then. Did you bring Gwaihir?” John asks, ignoring both their complaints. 

“Can't you hear her?” Rodney asks.

“You're both noisy,” John says.

“Was there a reason for this call, or just to annoy us?” Rodney asks.

“Just for an ETA. You're taking forever,” John whines.

“We stopped off for a little chat about times past,” Rodney says. 

“Oh look, a tree,” Lorne says. He does not want to admit he might have dropped John in some kind of trouble. Rodney and John go silent. 

“I might’ve broken him,” Rodney says. 

“Don't forget the turn,” John says. Rodney swings the car recklessly to the left. 

“Fuck. How did you - you ass! You hacked my phone and GPS! You turned location on?! John!”

“The CIA aren't after you,” John says. 

“You broke my hands free.”

“You broke my Lorne.”

“Guys? Are we nearly there?” Lorne asks. 

“Yes,” John says. 

“Not ‘nearly’ enough,” Rodney says. 

Lorne has to agree with Rodney. Ten minutes later they're still meandering through ever smaller roads. Twenty minutes later the roads are barely roads. Half an hour later there's no denying they're winding up a very long drive. Rodney talks the whole way, John butting in now and then. Lorne gets out as soon as the car comes to a stop, walking away and getting a breath and some quiet. John pushes off from a sturdy support, on a deck, which holds up a balcony. He's wearing the tattiest jeans and a pair of huge thick bobbly wool socks, and a jumper that hangs off him. He comes down the steps and goes to the car, scooping the cat out, nuzzling into her stinky fur. 

“What about me?” Rodney says. John shrugs but gives him a kiss hello before wandering over to Lorne. 

“Teyla's inside, c'mon,” John says, jerking his head and going back up the steps. 

  
  


Lorne follows, ignoring the griping he can hear from Rodney. John shouts at him to just leave it all but otherwise ignores it too. 

“Homeless!” Rodney shouts back. “Homeless and didn't tell me!”

“I'm gonna just go help Rodney with the luggage,” John says. 

Suddenly Lorne has his arms full of gross cat and John's gone. He can hear them arguing out the front. He looks around at the wide hallway, wondering what next, but Teyla's coming out. She's got a fat little baby in her arms. He recognises Marta from John's photos. 

“Hi, Evan,” Teyla says, and, wow, they really haven’t seen each other in a while if she’s trying out his first name.

“Please, even my mom calls me Lorne. I'd give you a hug, it’s good to see you, but…” he says, indicating the cat as best he can. 

“John gave you the cat, ah. OK. Here, let me,” Teyla says. She puts the baby on the floor, where she sits and starts building a tower with bricks that are just there. Teyla takes the cat from him and he breathes a sigh of relief. “She is an acquired taste.”

“It's not that. I've just been in a car with her farts and Rodney talking, for four hours,” Lorne says. Teyla's lips twitch. 

“Come on, I have coffee in the kitchen,” she says, turning away. He has a feeling it’s to hide her smile. “Oh, bring Marta.”

Lorne looks down at the small child, and then at the doorway that promises coffee, then at the child again. He takes a step back. He’s not retreating, he’s just bracing himself. He takes a deep breath. The baby’s looking uncertain, now, head turning, distracted from the tower of random bricks. She’s not actually a baby, not really, she’s quite big really. In her way to two according to the stories of a birthday party that John was full of a few months ago.

“Um, hi,” Lorne says. “I’m gonna just…”

He takes another step back when Marta looks at him, frowning, holding a brick to her chest. John comes in then, dumping luggage in the hallway. He swoops through and lifts Marta easily, making her laugh, she fits easily into the crook of his arm. Lorne hurries after them toward the kitchen, Rodney coming through still complaining about something or talking about something. Lorne makes it to the coffee before Rodney, which means he actually gets a cup. He sits with it, watching John in fascination. He’s got Marta on his knees, facing him, and they’re  _ chatting _ . She’s not even speaking, but John’s  _ chatting.  _

“John! You’re unbelievable! Stop teaching her that!” Rodney squawks suddenly. John lets out a grating, genuine hoot of laughter, which sets the child off, and they both sway with the hilarity of winding Rodney up. 

“So, even now your preference is for ‘Lorne’?” Teyla says, taking a seat next to Lorne.

“Yeah,” Lorne says, feeling awkward. He can feel a blush rising. She’s beautiful, and she’s smiling at him, and it’s warm here and Rodney and John are making a lot of noise in the background with Marta yelling happily along, and it feels so much like his moms’ house during the holidays, all that’s missing is the marines. “I like Lorne. Thanks. This is good coffee.”

“Yes, I make better coffee than Rodney does,” she says, smiling serenely.

“John’s word is not the word of a professional!” Rodney calls, somehow flat on his back with both Marta and John sat on him. “When he’s not nicking mine, he’ll drink the instant crap that gets left in the pot overnight!”

“It’s good and earthy that way,” John says. “Right, Marta? Mm?”

She makes positive sounding noises and she and John beam up at them and then down at Rodney. 

“Marta isn’t a professional coffee taster, either,” Teyla says. 

Lorne finds himself smiling, and somehow telling Teyla about his cousins and his moms, and before he knows it he’s started to relax. A neighbour, Halling, turns up to drop Torren back, and John leaves Rodney with Marta to get him a snack, seemingly in charge of that. He comes over to give Lorne’s shoulder a squeeze and lean on Teyla’s chair, listening in on them, looking pleased. Teyla gives his hand a squeeze and then gives him a shove, sending him off after Torren with a light ‘go play, boys’. Lorne settles back and thinks about the shape of his life. 

Right now it’s just him, really. Work, his little apartment in the sky, cooking on Sundays and calls with his moms. He has friends, of course, and there’s John and Rodney. Well, there’s John, Lorne never has quite understood Rodney. They get on fine, but they’re not great friends or anything. The thing with Caramel hadn’t gone anywhere, after the first flush of excitement, and he’s put all of that on a backburner. Looking around him here, at the families, or maybe it’s just one family, he doesn’t feel that he needs to rush out and find a girlfriend. Oddly, it makes him feel more like maybe there are other parts of his life he can nurture. He hasn’t done any art in a while, he hasn’t visited his parents, and his friendship with John mostly revolves about food and beer and proximity. Maybe this is John’s way of deepening things, sharing this bit of his life. 

“Hey, you alright, buddy?” John asks. Speak of the devil and he shall appear and all that; John’s leaning in the doorway, eyes on Lorne, and he realises he’s sitting in silence while Teyla clears up and starts looking in cupboards, pulling things out. 

“He’s fine, Shep, stop fussing,” Teyla says. “Let him appreciate my home, you never do. And speaking of that, move that crap out of my hallway before someone trips and breaks their neck and no I am not going to make Rodney do it, I like Rodney.”

“Don’t you like me?” John asks, already heading through all the same. 

“Not in the slightest,” Teyla says. 

John detours and Lorne’s not sure what happens but he must do something because next second Teyla’s flipped him and he’s on his back, honking with laughter. He bounces up and knocks his head against Teyla’s and then slaps Lorne’s shoulder. 

“Come on, colonel, help a friend out? You owe me for the dragging you out of the sand thing,” John says. 

“I feel like this is Rodney’s fault, he always talks about you dragging me out of sand when he wants something” Lorne says, getting up and following him to the chaos of luggage. “You know I only brought the gym bag, right?”

“Yep,” John says. “You’re on the second floor, I’ll show you in a minute, help me lug the entire contents of my house into the spare down here?”

They work in silence, Lorne admiring the door from the hall through to the spare room, which is a bookcase and is hidden, flush to the wall, until John hauls on a bit of rope and it swings silently outward. Teyla built it herself, apparently. She and Kanaan renovated the house after they bought it. John tells him about it, Lorne sitting on the edge of the bed while John putters around him. 

“So?” John asks, suddenly, leaning on the dresser and looking intently at Lorne. 

“So… ?” Lorne asks, running back through what John was talking about, but it was just something about joints and wood and something about someone called Mike Holmes. John, of course, hasn’t got the words to explain. He mutters something, goes brick red, chokes on a few words, manages to get out something about Teyla, then subsides into miserable silence. “Oh. Yeah, I like the house. It’s cool.”

John beams at him as if this is his achievement, bouncing back out, coming back to grab Lorne, bounding up the stairs with his duffle. He shows Lorne the little room under the roof, looking out into the garden, and then slips away and comes back with his arms full of cat again. Lorne sits in the window seat and watches Rodney, stood with his hands on his hips, playing some kind of game with the children. Teyla’s out there, laughing. John comes and holds Lorne’s shoulder, watching as well. 

“They love him, he talks to them like they’re adults, and I don’t mean like they’re his equals,” John says. “I mean he talks to them like they’re stupid and should be better at doing what he says. The game is that Rodney is the evil giant and they're helpless townsfolk.”

“I think they’ve been reading Gulliver’s Travels,” Lorne says, as Torren manages to topple Rodney and they swarm over him, Torren tying one of his wrists with a skipping rope. John nods. “It’s nice here.”

“Yep. Peaceful, right?” John says. 

“Yeah.”

“A nice break from things.”

“Ye- wait. Wait, this weekend is for my benefit?” Lorne asks, turning away from the garden scene to stare at John. John’s face does a weird twisty thing that somehow perfectly projects ‘duh’. “I thought you were, I dunno. Bonding time for me and Rodney, get me and Teyla back together in the same room, something about your brother not having called in a few months.”

“He said I had to call him next, I’m just… getting ready,” John says, on the defensive. He looks young, with that cat. Lorne regrets mentioning Dave. Nearly a year on that’s still all a bit rocky. 

“Ok ok, I just thought it was about you building family or something. I didn’t realise… yeah, I really needed a break, actually,” Lorne admits. 

“The Afghanistan trip is a big one,” John says. 

“The general is so bull-headed. He had his heart set on taking a chopper and doing a flyover, he’s supposed to be inspecting a base, we just got funding for them to run training programmes, doing some ground-up work on the withdrawal and passing things into the Afghani’s hands. Not joyriding over enemy air-space,” Lorne says. 

“You told him you couldn’t find a pilot, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“He said he’d fly it himself, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have to ring Doctor Jackson?”

“Yes.”

John very kindly doesn’t laugh. Sometimes Lorne’s absolutely certain that O’Neill is just doing these things to wind him up. If that’s so or not, trying to corral him into an itinerary that won’t put his life at risk, or include commandeering a helicopter and flying it himself, has made it incredibly difficult to plan this thing. It’s all done now, it’s in the system, O’Neill can’t futz with it. Looking over the last week, it seems obvious that this is a ploy by John to get him out of the city and away from things for a bit. He slept at work three times this week. 

“You know, that first time I disobeyed orders?” John hesitates, then shifts and stands at ease, almost. John always made sure to be just an inch off in everything and it’s still the same. He’s staring straight ahead and every now and then he pauses, searching for words. “I was twenty two, and my orders were- actually it’s classified but I did it, I followed them like a good soldier... And then more came through, and they went just a little further… then a little further. My CO at the time said it was that or ‘become a milkman’... well, I never could turn down an opportunity to disappoint someone.”

“So I ended up with a two year assignment flying under-caffeinated scientists around, instead of black ops and a distinguished career,” John says. “My point being… wait, what was my point?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Lorne says. 

“My point being, sometimes you just realise something isn’t for you, it doesn’t have to be some big heroic moral thing.”

“Yeah, still in the fog here,” Lorne admits. “Not that I don’t appreciate the… pep talk?”

“You’re sat right near that window, I could just shove you out,” John grumbles. 

“Rodney already threatened my life today, and put it in jeopardy twice. I’m immune to you Sheppard-McKays.”

“We’re not married,” John says, as he always does. “See? That’s it! There’s my point.”

“Your point is defenestration?”

“My  _ point  _ is jeopardy. Don’t put yourself in jeopardy, unless it’s for something you really believe in. It’s not worth it,” John says.

“Still confused,” Lorne says, though he’s beginning to see through John’s chaotic spirals. It’s dawning on him, and he doesn’t like it. “I spent as many years as you on active service, in war zones.”

“It’s not a- you were raised by two women, how do you still have such fucked up ideas about masculinity? Jesus. Men!” John looks startled at himself for a moment, then hums and looks at the ceiling. “Anyway. If you don’t want to go on this trip to Afghanistan, don’t go. It’s a choice, every time. Sometimes it’s worth it, and sometimes it’s not.”

“Shep, I think you drank some kinda kool-aid, there,” Lorne says. 

“I’ll set Rodney on you,” John growls, scowling. Then he just shrugs, turning away. “Just think about it.”

John turns to go, shutting the door and leaving Lorne alone in the small room. He appears outside in the garden a few minutes later, joining in with Gulliver's Travels. Lorne leans his head against the glass and thinks about his trouble sleeping, waking in a hot sweat, hearing gun-fire every time there’s a loud noise and jumping at nothing. However many details he plans for this trip, it’s not going to be safe. Lorne is absolutely certain he can handle himself in a combat situation, still. He’s kept his skills up to date, hand to hand and shooting and all of it. He’s been in difficult and dangerous situations with General O’Neill, even since working in an office. O’Neill is a hands-on guy. But maybe John’s right. Maybe he doesn’t need a big moral dilemma in order to not want to put himself through it again. 

  
  


* * *

Lorne feels like he’s swimming, deep under water, consciousness rising and falling around him. He can feel someone’s hand on his arm, can hear a voice. It doesn’t seem important. It gradually dawns on him that they’re walking, his feet are cold. The voice is familiar, reminiscent of missions gone slightly sideways. If they went really sideways it would be steadier, more demanding. Lorne stops walking, opening his eyes. He’s outside, Shep stood at his elbow waiting patiently. 

“Hey,” John says, when Lorne focusses on him. “We’re fine, do you know where you are right now?”

“Not really,” Lorne admits, looking around. Nothing’s familiar and things are still fuzzy. He looks back at John for an answer but John just nods, jerking his head and moving them in that direction, toward a long, sprawling house, a wide bank of French-windows showing a small light, one door open and welcoming. Lorne heads for that and as they walk he wakes up a little. “Major Emmagen’s house. You brought me here because you were worried about me.”

“Mm, I was a little,” John says, guiding Lorne in through the door and shutting it behind them. “Here, sit for a minute, I’ll be back.”

Lorne’s gently pushed into an armchair. He’s wearing a sweater that’s not his, it’s loose on him but warm. The one John was wearing earlier, he thinks, and his thoughts come sliding back into place from the dozy, half-awake fog. John comes back with a bowl of warm water, something tucked under his arm. He grins at Lorne and sits on the floor, cross-legged, and proceeds to wash Lorne’s feet. 

“Don’t,” Lorne protests, trying to pull away. 

“Just sit,” John says. “Dunno what you remember if anything, I know you sleepwalk sometimes I think this was different. You threatened to shoot me.”

“I didn’t bring my side-arm,” Lorne says. 

“For which I am very thankful,” John says. He’s finished washing while he talks, quick and efficient and distracting Lorne for just long enough to get done. It’s socks under his arm and he gives Lorne those to put on himself, climbing to his feet with a groan and stretching. “Jesus. Do you remember that time we ploughed into the ground, at the base outside Kabul?”

“The time we crashed?” Lorne corrects. “Not specifically.” 

“Hard landing, not a crash. Maybe I should just never sit on the floor again. I didn’t even do anything to this, I swear, it was a non-injury. Never get old, Lorne,” John says, shifting and rubbing at his hip, digging his fingers in.

“Right, sir. Yes sir,” Lorne says. 

“I’ll make us hot chocolate, you can tell me about this stuff,” John says, giving him the finger as he goes. 

Lorne sits, waiting, wondering what John expects him to talk about. He doesn’t even remember the dream, John probably knows more about it than he does. There’s a strange, tinny ringing in his ears, though, and it’s not that he can hear anything, but he a weird feeling of de ja vu almost. Like there’s two layers, multiple realities colliding, and somewhere, somewhere hot and loud and bloody, he can hear John shouting orders across a sweltering helicopter. There’s only the one time Lorne remembers John panicked like that, and he doesn’t want to remember that. Doesn’t want to remember the pain or the wet feeling of his own blood or the stomach turning moment when he realised John was flying one-handed, using the other to press against Lorne’s vest. 

“Here,” John says, quietly, careful not to startle Lorne - he’s all the way across the room, holding up a mug. He comes across and gives it into Lorne’s hands, keeping another for himself and sitting on the coffee table, facing Lorne. “What’s on your mind, huh?”

“Subtle,” Lorne says. 

“I try for subtle, you watch me tie myself in knots. It took me like six tries to tell Rodney something, the time I tried for subtle. Once he thought I had wet myself,” John mutters. Lorne’s pretty sure he’s talking mostly to himself, filling a gap while Lorne tries to find words. He blinks a few times. “He was really nice about it, actually.”

“I don’t remember getting shot,” Lorne says. John looks down and Lorne follows his gaze and finds that the hand he’s not holding the mug with is pressed to his side, where the jagged scar is. “That time. The one I nearly died.”

“Didn’t anyone tell you about it?” John asks. 

“You had been reassigned by the time I was on my feet,” Lorne says. “By the time I was signed-off for active duty, I just wanted it behind me.”

“You weren’t shot,” John says, sitting back a little, gaze going distant as if pulling up the memory for reference. “We took an RPG, it did surprisingly little damage but something exploded, I’m still not exactly sure what that was, and you were suddenly full of shrapnel and bleeding out in the sky. We were on our way to the evac, I’d already dropped our PJs and medicos, it was just you and me checking the area while they prepped for transport. I didn’t even see anything, I missed it.”

“The RPG?”

“Well, yeah, but I meant the fuckers with the launcher,” John says, shrugging. “They weren’t Taliban, they just recognised us as USA and decided to shoot us. Something political about the war-lord there.”

“Oh,” Lorne says. 

“That what’s getting to you?” John asks, putting aside his cocoa and leaning his elbows on his knees. It reminds Lorne of his Mama, home from deployment, talking to him about school, listening to him as if he was the most incredible thing in the world. 

“Until I was eight and mom got out of the service, no one even knew they were together? The marine corp didn’t even know I existed. She had to wait until she resigned her commission to adopt me,” Lorne says. 

“She talked to me about it a little,” John says. “But you haven’t.”

“Why was mom talking to you about that?”

“I asked her about raising a kid as queer parents,” John says. Lorne stares at him. Never in his life would he have expected John Sheppard to actually answer that so candidly. Like it wasn’t a big deal. John shrugs. 

“You want kids?” Lorne asks. 

“I mean, I thought about it,” John says, rubbing at his knee, avoiding eye contact. He does that anyway most of the time, though. “I know you like your work. You’re damned good at it, I have good reason to know that better than most.”

“Is this going to be like earlier? With the point being somewhere about six miles away?” Lorne asks, leaning back and sipping his hot chocolate. It’s warm and milky and thick, John’s put cinnamon in. It’s comforting.

“You need a little confidence,” John says. 

“In you being able to make a semblance of a point? Fine, fine. I have plenty of confidence in myself,” Lorne says. He cracks open an eye, when John doesn’t say anything for a moment, trying out a glare. 

“You never say no, you never tell anyone what  _ you _ need, you seem to be under the impression that you have no standing at work to push back. You do have standing, you’re one of the most competent aides in the Air Force, I’ve heard the generals fight over you. You’re the one who knows how to keep not just the generals safe, but the men and women serving. You have the authority to tell the general that he can’t fly over enemy air-space,” John says. “Just for example. Also, that you are not going with him back to the hell and mess that we’ve made of Afghanistan. Though maybe don’t word it like that.”

“John, I just,” Lorne stops, drinking his cocoa instead, wondering if John has more to say. He’s only ever heard John talk this much in mission briefings. To be fair, he feels a bit like he’s back serving under John and should be stood to attention and saying ‘yes sir’ and saluting. John doesn’t seem to have much else to say, though, they just sit quiet for a while, until Lorne can admit, “I don’t want to go back. I didn’t get an administrative assignment to get out of it, I swear, I didn’t turn my back.

“But now I am out of it, I don’t want to end up back there,” Lorne says. “Am I a coward?”

He opens his eyes when John doesn’t reply, daring to look, wondering if he’s going to find confirmation of this niggling doubt. John’s just looking thoughtful, turning his mug around and around in his hands as if searching for answers in the chocolate. 

“Funny, Rodney asked me the same thing, this morning,” John says. 

“Did you have an answer?” Lorne asks, wondering if he’s going to get some philosophical deep thing about fear being individual, or sometimes the braver thing was just what was more difficult, or something about doing what’s right. 

“I told him yep,” John says, breezily, grinning. “Cowardly lion, right there.”

“The cowardly lion was brave all along,” Lorne says. His mom read him that book while mom was away on deployment, once. 

“Rodney never watched the movie.”

“What about me? Am I a coward?” Lorne wants his answer, somehow John’s opinion is important. 

“Bring your cocoa,” John says. “I don’t have answers, you gotta work that out for yourself, bud. Come on, bed time for all good colonels. Up, on your feet, come on.”

Lorne gets up and allows John to prod him up the stairs to the little bedroom. John puts on a bedside lamp and straightens out the sheets and covers, pointing Lorne into bed and taking the mug away. Lorne lies down obediently, wondering if John’s gonna tuck him in. He doesn’t, just stands there, hands on hips, surveying his work. Lorne pulls the covers up, feeling oddly naked.

“Go to sleep, in the morning we’ll eat and take Torren and Marta to the park to give Teyla five minutes on her own,” John says, turning off the lamp. He’s silhouetted by the light in the hallway, now, Lorne can’t see his face. “You’re not a coward, you’re one of the bravest people I’ve had the privilege of serving with. Now go the fuck to sleep and try not to wake me up again, I’m tired.”

Lorne nods and curls up under the covers, watching John go, closing the door until there’s just a crack of light. It’s warm and safe, and Lorne feels young again, listening to John walk down the stairs, soft voices at the bottom, a huff of laughter. The light goes out and Lorne lies there in the dark, feeling better than he has in weeks. He isn’t quite ready to sleep, so he thinks about John saying he has to decide for himself if he’s a coward, and about him never telling anyone what it is he wants or needs. There’s some truth in it. He can dither over it all he likes, but he already knows the answer. If he had the kind of confidence his moms have, he’d be able to answer it. He isn’t a coward; he doesn’t want to go back to Afghanistan; he does want to keep working with General O’Neill; he can help keep the people serving active duty safe. John’s right, he knows his work and he has a broad experience to draw on. He doesn’t need more. 

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: sleep walking, flashback (off screen), nightmares, they talk about Lorne getting shot and nearly dying in the past, idk I'd warn for combat stuff but my knowledge is so small lol, but just in case, combat situations in the past, Lorne is trying to make a hard choice and has self esteem issues sort of, he's worried he's a coward, PTS symptoms... I think this is all.
> 
> As ever, post a comment here or visit my tumblr, dreamwidth or pillowfort (saxifactumterritum everywhere) if you want me to check for a trigger for you


End file.
